


Splash!

by Ravenstone



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a light hearted take on Professionals Fan Fiction and the many cliches and themes that reoccur in so many stories. It is not meant to offend, but to give you a giggle, so we sincerely hope we have achieved the latter and not the former!<br/>Merry Christmas 2009<br/>Raven RS and ILWB</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splash!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravenstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/gifts).



Splash = Spoof / Slash :)

 

Doyle was almost out of the Capri before it had screeched to a halt, leaving Bodie in the driver's seat as he bounded up the stairs to the front door. His long legs moved smoothly, despite the obscenely tight jeans clinging to the lean muscles. Doyle winced as he heard the driver's door slam behind him, knowing he was not going to be allowed to avoid the argument that was about to come.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Doyle!"

Without a backward glance, Doyle entered the building and made for the stairs to his flat. Bodie followed, his dark temper growing with every second the usually argumentative ex-copper avoided facing him. The ex-merc was not going to let this issue rest, whatever his partner wanted. By the time he reached Doyle's flat, he was almost ready to shoot Doyle in the leg to get him to stand still and listen to what he had to say. Fully intending to bawl him out at the first available opportunity, he was unprepared for the sight that met him as he stormed into the lounge of Doyle's flat, setting the locks behind him with swift, brutal economy of movement. 

Doyle stood with his back to Bodie, lounging with unconscious grace against the fireplace of the large, well-lit room. The broad shoulders sagged slightly, tiredness in his bearing, and the slim-hipped, waif-like figure standing with one hip canted, hand resting lightly on his waist, was almost enough to rob Bodie of his breath. The sight of Ray Doyle, his customary feline grace bowed and subdued, was not something Bodie was expecting. His fiery, fire-cracker of a partner was more likely to snarl and bite than stand in quiet desolation waiting for an argument to start. Other members of the squad might wonder how Bodie dealt with arguably the most confrontational and least liked CI5 agent, but Bodie knew with quiet certainty that he would never work with anyone else. This submissive Doyle would have shocked anyone else who thought they knew him; to Bodie, it warned of a depression that would cause his partner emotional pain for days.

"Say what you have to say then get out, Bodie." Doyle's voice was low, resigned. Bodie sighed. The golli was already well on his way into a guilt trip. He recognised the all-too familiar signs. His idealistic partner needed little provocation in that regard, and it was always Bodie's job to bring him out of it. Birds, booze, some laughs were generally enough, but the emotional rollercoaster of the day was too much for shallow distractions and meaningless pursuits. Bodie had the deep, gnawing fear that they had now reached the point where only the truth would save them. The almost telepathic communication between them had made them the best of the best, the top CI5 teaming, maybe of all time. But that communication required total trust between them, and Bodie had been keeping secrets from his partner for too long. Only one secret, if he was honest. But a big one. An important one.

Bodie needed Doyle to look at him, to see the emotions on his expressive face, flashing in those malachite eyes. He needed some contact, something to prove to himself that his partner was still alive, still there, still standing in front of him with the same tempting, torturous allure that had driven him crazy and fuelled his most secret dreams these last four years.

"No." Bodie pouted, his chiselled features grim with determination. With sudden clarity, Bodie knew he had to control this situation before he said something he would regret, before the control he had exercised all this time slipped from his possession and he hurled himself at Doyle's feet in pitiful supplication. But his strictly heterosexual partner would never know how to react, despite a possibly varied sexual education at art school. Too many birds in his history, and no suggestion of blokes, although there were times when Bodie felt a heaviness in the gaze that his partner threw at him, a suggestion of something else lurking in the emerald depths. 

Bodie shrugged out of his leather jacket, throwing it onto the sofa, his shoulder holster and Browning following suit. It wouldn't do to read things that weren't there, to project his own needs into his partner's actions. The lust had been burning inside him since the moment he met the argumentative Met copper, despite taking an immediate dislike to him. But dislike had turned to grudging admiration, and then into respect; and lust had not diminished, only become fuelled by the added flame of love. A singularly unpleasant revelation experienced after finding Ray shot and bleeding in his apartment and watching him fight Death after Mayli's bullets had stopped his heart. 

Buying himself time, he strode to the drinks cabinet and poured two large whiskies. He downed one glass immediately, and poured another, before turning to Doyle and holding the glass over the tense shoulder. 

Doyle half-turned, acknowledging the looming shadow of Bodie behind him, and accepted the glass without a murmur. But he still would not turn and face him.

"You're going to run out of luck one day, Goldilocks," Bodie said softly to the broad, muscular back.

"Don't need luck. I've got you."

With a sudden rush, Bodie's temper returned. He slammed his glass down on the mantlepiece, not caring about the slosh of amber liquid over the wood, and reached out to turn Doyle around.

"Don't say that!" he snapped. "What you did today was irresponsible. Between you and Cowley's triple-think, you've got to take more care. How am I supposed to protect you when you take risks like that?"

The green eyes flared with sudden anger as Doyle tore himself from Bodie's iron grip. "I don't need you to protect me!" he snarled. "I can look after meself."

Bodie reached out and brushed his fingertips against the cruel bruising across Doyle's unflawed cheek, his touch gentler than his mood suggested. "It looks like it," he growled softly. Doyle flinched at the touch, jade eyes closing suddenly, and Bodie stilled his stroking hand.

Doyle's eyes opened suddenly, and Bodie froze at the wantonly seductive light in the cat-like, moss-green eyes. It took all of Bodie's considerable self-control not to reach out and grasp one of those deceptively thin but muscular wrists with his strong, broad hand. Storm-cloud blue eyes were unreadable, watching the fey creature that was his partner, wondering how so many of his dreams and desires could possibly be wrapped up on the mercurial, hot-tempered individual that was Ray Doyle.

The familiar pain lurched in Bodie's chest, a tightness that seemed to stop his breathing, and he knew he had to get out, get away, put some distance between himself and Doyle before he betrayed himself, the partnership, and his continued employment at CI5. His sudden panic seemed to seep into Doyle's consciousness, as the green eyes widened when Bodie started to move away, and a strong hand, fingers callused from years of gun use, wrapped around his wrist like the handcuffs Doyle customarily carried.

"Don't." Doyle's voice was suddenly soft. Bodie's midnight blue eyes flickered, ranging over the beloved face so close and yet so far away. He broke his gaze, long eyelashes shielding his soul from revealing too much in those storm-cloud blue eyes.

"Don't what?" Bodie's voice caught in his throat, sounding hoarse to his ears.

"Don't spoil this." The firm grip around his wrist pulled him inexorably closer, until the green eyes, dark with emotion, filled his vision. Not believing what was happening, he felt Doyle's breath, warm and whisky scented, against his face, before velvet soft lips brushed against his own, and Bodie was falling  falling into a waking dream where Ray Doyle was warm and alive, and in his arms, kissing him, his mouth opening beneath the gentle onslaught that grew more demanding with every second. Bodie was frozen in the embrace, not knowing whether to respond or wait and see what Doyle's next move would be. But the warm tongue probing his mouth robbed him of his stoic control, and all he could do was lean against the slender body that held him upright, feeling the wiry arms wrapping around him, wordlessly pouring all the pent up yearnings and desires of four long years into a soul-stealing kiss.

Bodie's strong, blunt fingers wound into the riotous mop of reddish-brown curls, cradling the precious skull, pulling the slender man deeper into the kiss, feeling answering tremors wracking the lean frame with a ferocious pleasure at the knowledge that it was him causing that fearful trembling. 

The need for air separated them at last, both men breathing heavily, their eyes dark with lust. Doyle grinned, his chipped tooth glinting in the light, and Bodie longed to once again run his tongue over that most perfect of imperfections. His square-tipped fingers brushed the tumble of curls from Doyle's asymmetric cheek. 

Bodie's gaze dropped, his long dark lashes flush against his pale skin. He squeezed his eyes shut tight but couldn't stop the tears escaping. "I couldn't bear to lose you," he stammered.

Strong arms wrapped surely around him. "Don't be daft, you dumb crud," Doyle growled fondly, rubbing long, artistic fingers across Bodie's broad, muscular back. "Don't you know how long I've wanted this?"

"Well, I'm sometimes accused of being a bit slow on the uptake," Bodie admitted with false embarrassment.

Doyle grinned, running a hand through the cropped black hair and pulling his head back down to meet his. "No. Really?"

"Yeah. Us Army types aren't picked for our intelligence."

"Not even the S.A.S?"

Bodie's lips moved in a smile against Doyle's. "Especially the S.A.S., angelfish."

"Well, if you'd paid more attention instead of chasing all them air hostesses....."

"No more air hostesses, Ray." Bodie shook his head with gentle but certain surety. "No more birds. For either of us."

Doyle grinned, but his eyes were soft with tenderness. "No way. I'd cut your bollocks off."

Senses awash with the sensations flooding his system, Bodie could only marvel at the scent that was somehow uniquely Doyle filling his nostrils  a heady mix of gun-oil, cordite, musk and sweat. Then he felt himself drowning in the taste of whisky and Ray, and conscious thought slipped away. A hunger stronger than he thought possible wracked his body, his arms wrapping tighter around the smaller man, pulling him into him as though surrounding him with his own strength, wanting always to protect and cherish this other part of himself, the other half of his soul.

"Ray," he breathed softly into the auburn curls at his ear. "Let's go to bed."

He felt Doyle giggle softly and he pulled away to look down into the smiling face. "Can't, mate. It is Christmas Eve, you know."

Bodie frowned, the creases only accentuating his pale good looks. "Christmas don't mean much to me. Left home at fourteen, and gun-running in Angola isn't exactly a typical Christmas card setting."

The throwaway comment did not reflect the horrific images that the mention of Angola drew from Bodie's memory. Not even the night had given respite from the screams of victims. And if no other target presented itself, the mercs would turn on each other, beating and battering the weaker members into submission. The haunted looks of some young men, barely more than boys, still lingered in his nightmares.

Doyle's keen green eyes scanned the handsome face, seeing the pain and horrors hidden in the depths of Bodie's sapphire eyes. "Well, that's all behind you, sunshine," he said softly. "You'll never be alone again."

"Never?"

Doyle smiled at the meaning hidden behind the question. "Never. I'll be here as long as you want me."

Bodie gave a broad grin, dark eyes dancing. "How's forever sound?"

Doyle's smile widened in reply. "Not long enough by half, mate. Not for all the things I've got planned for you." He plucked at the black poloneck sweater with playful fingers. "With how much you wear, it's going to be New Year before I get to any bare skin."

"So when you going to start?" Bodie leaned forward to claim Doyle's mouth again, but he dodged the kiss with a laugh.

"Not now, love. Me Dad'll be round any minute. Every Christmas Eve, we get together."

"Your Dad?"

Doyle nodded as the door bell rang. "Don't panic. I've got swiss rolls in 'specially." 

"What? None of that health food crap?"

Doyle gave him a look of patient exasperation. "It's Christmas. Not the season for health food crap. But I've no intention of carving a lasagna for Christmas Day, love, so you'll be helping me with a different kind of stuffing later."

He extricated himself from Bodie's arms, but held onto one hand as he pulled the more powerful man after him to answer the intercom.

"Doyle?" The gruff Scottish voice, all too familiar, temporarily confounded Bodie, being the last voice he expected to hear.

"Yeah, come on up, Dad."

Doyle turned to Bodie, laughing aloud at the frozen expression on his lover's face. 

"Dad?" Bodie managed, his voice a squeak.

"Yep," he replied between giggles. "Shall you be asking him for me hand in marriage then?"


End file.
